In the centre of Osh, in southern Kyrgyzstan near the Uzbek border, children rollerblade around the fountain in the park, students from the nearby university sit at open air cafes, chatting and drinking tea. To the west towers Sulayman mountain, which local people climb to gaze out over their city.

The view from the top is very different from that of a year ago. Over three days last June violent tensions between ethnic Kyrgyz and Uzbeks, who each make up around half of the population and had lived largely in harmony for generations, left 470 people dead, many hundreds injured and entire swathes of the suburbs reduced to piles of smouldering rubble.

For one resident the nightmare began at 3am on 11 June. Zufia, 47, a Kyrgyz woman living in the suburbs, was woken by the phone.

"It was my sister, in a panic, saying her student dormitory in the centre of town was on fire and she was scared she might die," said Zufia over tea and bread in a recently rebuilt part of her extensively damaged house. She and her husband jumped into their car and headed towards the city centre but were stopped by crowds of Uzbeks blocking the road. "We saw them overturn a car of Kyrgyz people, pull them out, dowse them in petrol and set them on fire. I was dressed like an Uzbek and speak the language. I convinced the crowd I was Uzbek and we were allowed to turn back." Her sister was later rescued by the army and now lives in the capital, Bishkek.

At the time, it was widely reported that ethnic Uzbeks, many of whose families had lived in the region for generations, were overwhelmingly the victims. An official report into the events in Osh and nearby Jalalabad, which was also caught up in the violence, concluded that although there was a disproportionate number of Uzbek victims – in addition to the deaths and injuries, 111,000 fled across the border and 300,000 were forced to leave their homes – atrocities were committed on both sides.

What triggered the violence, which caught residents of the city by surprise, is not entirely clear. A Kyrgyz was shot outside a casino by an Uzbek, which many cite as the primary cause. However, there were rumours (unfounded, according to the official report) of a rape on the university campus that, in turn, triggered the casino shooting.

It is also widely believed that local politicians were keen to fan the violence for their own political ends. Where blame lay for igniting the conflict was academic for Zufia on June 11, however.

She and her extended family, including six grandchildren, remained in her house, hiding in the basement. With no electricity, there was no way of getting news about what was going on. In the evening, a large crowd of Uzbeks gathered at the house, intent on burning it down.

"My Uzbek neighbour dissuaded them, saying that the fire might spread to his house," said Zufia. The family moved to a flat they owned in the centre of town early the next day, but returned to secure the release an Uzbek neighbour who had been kidnapped and held by a crowd of Kyrgyz people as part of a proposed hostage exchange. She then returned to the flat but her husband stayed at the house with other Kyrgyz men.

At some point over the following hours he was killed, his body mutilated and left sprawled in the street. Carved into his back were the words: "Here is a Kyrgyz mattress." She later saw his body in the morgue.

In another part of the city live ethnic Uzbeks Yulduz, 42, and her husband Sultan, 47, in a house that is still being rebuilt. For Sultan, a construction worker, 10 June was like any other day as he joined Kyrgyz colleagues. Yulduz, meanwhile, was at home looking after their daughter who had given birth 10 days earlier. "I had a tiny grandson; I was happy," he said. The next morning, things changed. "We heard shooting and saw a tank at the end of our street, although I still don't know if it was in the hands of the army or the rioters but I do know that a lot of people were killed in the street outside our house." The official report found that guns and armoured personnel carriers did fall into the hands of rioters.

The entire family ran, escaping to the home of friends in another part of Osh. They could see fires all over the city but were unaware of the extent of the violence. The next morning they went to the Uzbek border, but it was shut.

"The baby was sick, my daughter couldn't feed her because she hadn't eaten and we had no choice but to sit in a ditch," said Yulduz, in tears. "We had no help from the authorities."

Eventually, later that afternoon, the Uzbek government opened the border and thousands of refugees poured over, including Yulduz and her family. "It was freedom," said Sultan. "We'd felt like refugees from our own homes." On the other side of the border, the family got food and medical attention, the couple's daughter and her baby were taken to hospital, where they were well cared for, said Yulduz.

"On 26 June we came back," she added. "My house was gone. I had lost everything. We stayed with neighbours and then lived in a tent in a big camp run by the Red Cross. In our neighbourhood 162 houses were destroyed. At the end of September we started to rebuild the house although we celebrated the new year in a tent. But we will continue to live here because this is our home."

Yulduz alleges she was beaten up by a local Kyrgyz man six months ago. "I saw him stop two schoolboys and ask them for ID," she said. "He had no right or reason to do that. I challenged him and he hit me. I recognise him when I see him in the street but the police won't do anything."

For Zulfia, things have been difficult. "I was in the mental hospital for several weeks afterwards, and can't even look at a knife," she said. "I don't want to live in Osh. I really want to move to Bishkek but my son wants me to stay."

Will she ever find forgiveness? "I don't trust Uzbeks and think they're cruel," she answered. "If my husband had been killed by a bad person, it would be different. But he was killed by ordinary people."

The future of Osh is the subject of much discussion among aid agencies and others. "Tensions between Kyrgyz and Uzbeks are much lower than they were last June," says a senior aid worker based in the city. "New tensions have sprung up between Kyrgyz people and the aid community – they see the international community as biased towards Uzbeks."

The worker goes on to say that while a return to violence is a always risk, particularly around the anniversary of the events in 2011, people seem to avoid tension. Discrimination is still high, he says, particularly against Uzbeks, but both communities seem reluctant to return to the past.

The official report into the events of last June criticises the authorities for not doing more to calm tensions in the aftermath, citing nationalistic rhetoric by the city's Kyrgyz mayor, Melis Myrzakmatov, as a major issue, as well as a failure to seek out and prosecute people involved in violence against woman.

It is a view reflected in recent reports by the campaign groups Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International. Both organisations say the government in Kyrgyzstan failed to address the issues arising from the violence, and did not bring the perpertrators of violence to justice. They also say a continuing dearth of ethnic Uzbeks in positions of authority has done much to undermine any moves towards social cohesion.

A few days before I left Osh, I climbed Sulayman mountain for the last time. As I was standing gazing out over the city, a local man, Ali, introduced himself and asked me about myself. We chatted for a while and then he looked out over Osh.

"I love my country," he said gazing down. "If only we could learn to love each other."